


Once more into the breach

by Clara_the_shrew



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Disfunctional relationship, Hurt, M/M, Sex, mary morstan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 14:31:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1861407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clara_the_shrew/pseuds/Clara_the_shrew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have been together for a while. But all is not well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once more into the breach

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended as the first chapter of a long and dark fic. I gave up on the story, but decided this chapter could stand on its own.  
> If you like fluff and happy endings, you probably should not read this.  
> It was written before season 3, and the time is somewhere between Scandal and Reichenbach.

Once more into the breach.

It was happening again. Sherlock had known for some time, though he hadn't admitted it to himself. The signs were subtle but all too familiar. John started withdrawing, hiding in books, rather than talking to him. He would be staying out longer and leaving earlier in the mornings.  
The sex grew more frequent but less passionate. It became habit, something expected and mechanical.  
Sherlock knew what would follow, and part of him wanted desperately to stop, to be the one to pull out this time, to end it. But another part, the one who loved John desperately told him to see it through to the end, to take as much as he could get, even though it would hurt even worse in the end.

The last night was always the worst. Sherlock had been fairly sure, already before John left in the morning that this was it. The way he got dressed, drank his tea, even the way he closed the door said it all too clearly. It was almost over. Sherlock seriously considered leaving. Not being there when John came home, but he just couldn't do it. Even this, the worst pain of all, was better than nothing.  
So he spend the day preparing for what was to come. He took a long walk through the wet Autumn streets of London, even had a small meal at a café. He then went home and spent far too long under the scalding water in the shower, before choosing John's favourite outfit. He tamed his hair and then settled on the sofa to wait.  
He knew it was perverse preparing like this, dressing up. But he just couldn't help it. This little ritual, as twisted and painful as it was, was as much part of their relationship, as the blissful times in between, growing ever shorter and more infrequent.

He had been dozing when the sound of John's footsteps on the stairs brought him back to full alertness. Now he wished he could run and hide, but it was too late. He rose to his feet and looked at the door. As John stepped in, the feeling of deja vu was almost overwhelming. He had seen that exact look in his eyes too many times. The feral hunger and flaming lust. Sherlock's knees grew weak. From fear or longing? Maybe both. Never taking his eyes off Sherlock, John removed his jacket and shoes, slowly, deliberately. Then he crossed the room, sauntering like a large feline predator, which, having spellbound it's prey takes time to savour it's power, before moving in for the kill.  
"Hi honey," Sherlock tried to sound casual. "How was your day?" It was all part of the ritual.  
"Torture," John replied, as he reached out a hand to gently stroke Sherlock's cheek. "It was too long. Way too long when all I could think about was you."  
Sherlock shivered and closed his eyes.  
"Look at me," John ordered, his voice heartbreakingly gentle. "Look at me, please."  
Sherlock obeyed and tears came unbidden to his eyes, when he saw the tenderness and guilt mixed with the passion in John's eyes.  
John noticed and tutted. "Come on now, darling. It's not that bad." And then he pulled Sherlock's head down to where he could reach up and kiss him. But Sherlock knew that it was that bad. It was the worst thing in the world. And he was going to let it happen. Again and again and again.

John pushed him down on the sofa. It was slow and passionate, with lingering kisses, clothes disappearing unnoticed, almost melting away. When John took him it was gentle and loving, their bodies moving in the perfect synchrony that only comes with time and familiarity. They came together, John crying Sherlock's name.  
They lay for a long time, skin glistening with sweat, limbs entangled. John's fingers played with Sherlock's hair, while he lazily kissed his way along his jawline, and then down to that sensitive spot on his neck, right behind the ear. The touch made Sherlock quiver and hum with pleasure. On these nights John was the perfect lover, knowing every inch of Sherlock's body, every touch and every response.  
Finally, Sherlock freed himself from John's embrace and went to the kitchen to get them something to drink. But as he stood by the sink, waiting for the water to run cold, he heard John behind him. Knowing what was coming next, he didn't turn around, but turned off the water and waited.  
John slipped up behind him, wrapping his arms around his chest and nuzzling against his back. "You are so fucking beautiful, you know that?" He murmured, as he started kissing and nibbling at Sherlock's left shoulder.  
"Thank you." Sherlock tilted his head back, leaning into John. John's right hand slid up slowly and came to rest where Sherlock's chest and throat met, his fingers spread out, almost grasping. It was a familiar caress, one they had never spoken of, but both knew signalled power and possession, a never carried out threat. As always, it made Sherlock gasp with the sudden onset of irresistible lust it woke in him.  
John chuckled, just a little menacingly. The hand disappeared and then came down on Sherlock's neck, gently pushing him forward. Obligingly, Sherlock leant across the counter, spreading his legs a little and bending his knees, to compensate for the height. John hummed appreciatively as he let his hands slide down Sherlock's back, settling on his hips. "So fucking beautiful," he repeated. "And so incredibly hot," he added, as he pushed into Sherlock.  
This time there was no gentleness. It was hard and fast, John pulling Sherlock into each thrust, Sherlock's hands grasping desperately for something, anything to hold onto. Before long, he was moaning John's name as he came, none of them having ever touched his cock. John kept up the pace until Sherlock was whimpering. Then with a few violent thrusts he finished and collapsed against Sherlock's back.

Later they were in the shower together, Sherlock's face and chest freezing against the cold tiles, his back burning from the water and John pressed against him, their bodies moving as one.

They ended up in Sherlock's bed. John lay down on his back, knees bend and his face lit by a smile of pure love, as he pulled Sherlock down on top of him. As Sherlock slowly sank in, he knew it was the end. This was reserved for the very last moment. So as he moved, he willed time to slow down, to stop. 'Please let this last,' he prayed to no one. 'This one thing which is all I have left.'  
But it never did. It was over all too soon, and as Sherlock rested his head on John's chest, he asked the question.  
"Who is she."  
John was a long time answering.  
"Her name is Mary. I met her through Mike." There was a long pause, and then he added the words, Sherlock had dreaded hearing ever since the first time: "I think she might be the one."

Sherlock slept late the next morning, his body exhausted, his mind unwilling to face the pain. As he slowly drifted back to the world, he knew that John was gone again.


End file.
